


Nothing To Confess

by jjtaylor



Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-27
Updated: 2011-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:01:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjtaylor/pseuds/jjtaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The truth is, he’s imagined a hundred futures playing out in front of him, and all of them have had Patrick, here with him, in his motorcycle gang, in the desert, a whispered name away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Confess

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ataratah for beta. Check out the amazing art by reflectedeve that inspired the story: [Stay Helpless](http://reflectedeve.dreamwidth.org/91939.html).

The tires have kicked up enough dust that there's a haze in the air that seems like it's been hanging there forever and won't dissipate. Pete's trying to make changes to their map, marking routes with the point of his knife when there are too many overlapping ink roads.

"Careful with that, you're gonna scratch my bike," Bebe says. She's holding up the pair of binoculars that Pete's pretty sure only has one working lens. He doesn't know how she can see anything in the haze anyway, or whether it's going to get clearer at night. Pete wouldn't mind spending some time looking up at the stars. He thinks maybe he'll start a star map, the next time he come across some paper.

"I'm not gonna scratch your bike," Pete says. Bebe just shakes her head, like he can't be trusted not to ruin anything.

There's not a lot left to ruin in the desert, but Pete's no one's good luck charm. They've been running messages since Joe and Andy split to rebuild one of the zone havens. It's a better job now they have motorcycles and aren't trying to hoof it through 800 miles of desert or whatever. And generally people are happy to see them when they've got a message from someone on the other side of the vast stretches of desert between them all. What they can't deliver, Pete broadcasts at whatever station is on their route that week.

Pete misses Joe's laugh and Andy's pontificating, and a whole lot of other things. He doesn't like losing people. He has Ash and Bebe, and even Spencer and Nate, when they actually leave the message booth in Zone 4, and they're a good team, but Pete still sees every one who he used to think was his team superimposed over the way things are now, ghosts over their moving skeletons, maps laid over maps.

"Stop thinking about him," Ashlee says, startling Pete enough that he drops the knife and swears.

"I'm not thinking about anything," Pete says. "Empty-headed."

"Sure, Pete," Ashlee says. "We're all different now, you know," she says, her voice softer. "Look at us. Motorcycle gang kids, you know? Who could have imagined."

It's Ash's way of trying to take away some of his guilt. Pete's still surprised she even bothers to try. He bites his tongue to stop from saying something that he knows will get him a look, maybe even a sad one, but the truth is, he's imagined a hundred futures playing out in front of him, and all of them have had Patrick, here with him, in his motorcycle gang, in the desert, a whispered name away.

"You want to get lost in that empty head for a little longer or you ready to pick up the trail?"

"Are we even close?"

"I think our next delivery's just a couple miles," Ash says, "You ready to suit up, Bee?" Ash shouts to Bebe up on the hill. She turns and gives them a wave, her nails bright spots of color along the horizon. Ash slips on her helmet, pulls down her goggles, and Pete puts the knife in its sheath, folds the map and sticks it in his front pocket, and puts on his gloves. He swings his leg over the bike and feels better once they're moving, like the formation they keep - Ashlee always a little in front and Bebe always a little in back - is enough to keep him from going too far outside of himself, because there's always someone pulling him down, down, down, like the weight of his bike on the road, grounding him from floating away from the desert and into the rip tide memories of the last person who turned his back and walked away.

 

There's a blockade up on the main road and Ashlee signals from them to turn off a half a mile before, because they could probably fake their way through the paperwork since they just stocked up at the counterfeit fair, but Ashlee's never one to court trouble and Pete appreciates it because sometimes he's just too tired to manage his own impulse control for running toward the thing he ought to know well enough to avoid.

They make good time for a quarter of an hour, and then Bebe's the first to notice something is wrong. There's another cluster of Draculoids, far enough away from the blockade to be obviously up to something else.

The Dracs start firing before their bikes are even in range, and by then it's too late to turn around and give them their backs, so they're just going to have to drive through them. The Dracs seem to know and take a formation blocking the road. Bebe's good enough a driver to take a wide circle around them, through the rocky shoulder, but Ash is already hesitating. It's a split second decision; Pete shouts for Ash to shoot her way through the middle and he angles his bike so he'll be right beside her - and right between two Dracs.

Of course, it doesn't go smoothly. He tips his bike too much to the side and his tires spin out and he gets his leg dragged against the road before he rights himself, and he's fighting against Drac arms pulling at him, trying to drag him back down. He hears Bebe's fire, and Ash shouting, and he manages to get himself righted on his bike and they speed off.

When they're far enough away to be sure the Dracs aren't actually chasing them, Ashlee stops her bike sideways, blocking the path, and by the time Pete takes off his helmet, Bebe's stopped close behind him, and they're edging him in.

"You ok, Pete?" Ashlee asks, and her voice is firm and calm, but it doesn't stop him from saying what's buzzing in his head.

"He could be there. If we follow them, they might lead us to him. The last time we saw him, his unit - "

"Blew up all that was left of the transfer station," Bebe says.

"He could be back there," Pete says.

“Yeah, which is why we're going the other way," Bebe says.

"It's Patrick," Pete says a little desperately.

"It's Scarecrow," Ash says firmly, and Pete finds himself just copying Ash's movements, so Bebe's in the lead, and Ash has his back, and Pete's suspended in the middle by momentum as they turn their bikes around.

 

They stop at the next station to fill up, and so Pete can check on how badly his leg is torn up. Bebe is bargaining for replacement parts for the bikes that they don't need yet. Ash is keeping watch. Pete peels back his jeans and they're tacky with blood from a lot of shallow scrapes and nothing too keep; he's surprised it's not worse, but he should know by now that it's the less serious wounds that always hurt the most. He'll probably have a massive bruise, but a couple of bandages and maybe a new pair of pants and he'll be fine.

Pete's composing an intro for the next broadcast to distract himself from the way his thigh and knee are stinging each step he takes. Ashlee tried to get him to but his feet up and rest, but sitting still made everything itch and burn and at least moving could distract him. The words are getting jumbled and his hands are still a little shaky from the way he gripped his bike, and he really misses actually writing things down, not having to carry all the words in his head. He always writes things differently when he can just write first and think later, other words sneak out that are hiding in darker places in his head, and everything feels tighter, like there's just one way for everything to get out and it's crowded, waiting, backed up and jammed.

He kicks a piece of concrete small as a walnut as he thinks of this week's words, this week full of messages the senders are just hoping the recipients will hear, this zone, this moment, all of the messages waiting to be sent, and he's kicked his way to the exterior wall of what used to be another building, like the small nut of concrete was taking him to where it came from. He's got a tangle of an image about pieces breaking of the walls of where he came from, or how he's a piece among pieces, rolling away, and when he looks up, Patrick is standing there in the shadow of what's left of the wall. He has his gun out and pointed at Pete before Pete can even unholster his.

"Heard you had a run-in with some guys I know," Patrick says. "That's a lot of blood on your jeans."

"You come to see how badly I was hurt?" Pete asks. "See if you can finish me off?"

Patrick takes a step forward, his gun just that much closer to Pete's heart. "I did come to see how badly you were hurt." His hand brushes over Pete's thigh where it's all scraped up and Pete winces. "But I'm not here to make it worse."

"Why are you coming after me?" Pete says, and he steps into Patrick's space so the gun touches his vest. "You're the one who left." Patrick grins, the wind whipping the haze up around them so Pete feels like they're paused, like the air is thick with the moment stretching out and out and out so thick into the air.

"You get so angry," Patrick says. "It's beautiful."

Pete feels himself flushing, and then Patrick's lowering his gun and leaning in to kiss Pete. Pete's hands hang useless at his sides, he can't reach for his gun, he can't reach for the knife in his pocket, he can't even grab Patrick, he just gives himself up to the kiss, trying to chase the absolute, pure familiar thrum in his heart in the movement of Patrick's mouth against his even though they have never, ever done this before.

"See?" Patrick says, pulling back, and Pete's head is tilted toward Patrick, chasing the disappearing heat of his mouth, mouth open, breath short. "How could I resist making you look like that?" Patrick says, brushing his thumb over Pete's bottom lip, and Pete tries to bite it, but Patrick pulls away too fast. "How could I resist making you give up everything for me?"

"I wouldn't," Pete says.

"The way you taste says otherwise," Patrick says, and then he turns and walks off and Pete just stands there, useless, unable to stop him from turning and walking off, just like every other time it's ever mattered.

 

They stop at a blown out clearing because someone's flagging them down. Pete can see Bebe's expecting a trap, and it makes Pete jumpier than he already is. Ash is the only one with her head on straight about it, and so she takes the messages, while Pete and Bebe hang back like they're expecting an ambush from two kids barely in their teens, holding out a bundle of letters.

"What's with you?" Ashlee asks him as she tucks the letters into her saddle bag. "I expect it from Bebe."

"Hey," Bebe protests, but only half-heartedly. She's watching the kids as they turn their backs to the road.

"There's not always someone lying in wait," Ashlee says. He can tell from the way she says it that by 'someone' she means 'Patrick.'

"That's what I thought, too, but there he was," Pete says.

"What the hell does that mean?" Bebe snaps.

"Pete," Ashlee says, so close to his bike he thinks she might actually shove him off. "Where was he? At the gas station?" Pete knows too late that the answer shows on his face. "I thought you understood," Ashlee says slowly, "That being part of this meant you told us when something like that happened."

"Nothing happened, it was just - " Pete starts to say, but Ashlee abruptly turns away, gets on her bike and starts the engine. She doesn't wait for Pete and Bebe before she's taking off down the road.

"In case you were wondering why you two broke up," Bebe says, and then she starts her bike and takes off, too, leaving Pete trailing behind until they cross into the next zone.

 

Pete goes out for some air after the message broadcast at the end of the week. A good one always makes him feel like this, like his chest is a hot air balloon, fire in his belly urging him up and up. The haze has finally cleared and he can see something glowing along the horizon. It might be sunset or it might be something burning, but everything is so flat, like a painting instead of an actual sky and Pete thinks he could probably get back in front of the microphone and keep talking until the sky goes black, but his head is quiet for once, and he just breathes in the dry air, and tries to make it comforting, even if it's just like blowing on a flame, and his heart gutters and flares.

Bebe comes out a few minutes later; she's clearly checking on him even though she pretends to be pulling something out of her gear bag on her bike.

"You remember those really long mic cords?" Pete says, and Bebe turns and looks up at him and he knows it's the wrong thing to say.

"Some of them were pretty long, yeah," Bebe says cautiously.

"I was just thinking, I used to get tangled in them, sometimes, if the coil got a snag. Always used to trip over them. There's nothing to trip on out here."

Bebe sighs and says, "There's plenty to trip on."

"My own feet, maybe," Pete says. Bebe just messes with her gear bag for a minute more before pulling out a couple of shell casings. "We're swapping in a few minutes if you want to see what the other guys have. Maybe someone'll have a mic cord."

Pete's about to say that, sure, he'll come in and see what there is when he hears too many footsteps in the dark. He turns, looking all the way across the horizon for a shadow, for something white standing too brightly against the night.

"Did you hear that?" he whispers to Bebe, but she already has her gun out, and so she clearly did. "Show yourself," she shouts.

Three Draculoids step out from what Pete belatedly realizes is a BL/ind van parked just so it blends in with the curve of he road. He hasn't heard the engine, which means they've been out here the whole time, probably since it got dark.

"Get inside," Bebe hisses at him.

Bebe fires at one of the Draculoids, who stumbles and goes down with her second shot.

"More on the right," Pete says, and he and Bebe turn and fire at the same time.

"We need to get inside," Bebe shouts, though the door swings open and Ashlee comes out, gun raised. She fires, and a Draculoid fires back, and then Pete's shouting over the gunfire. Bebe just dodges a shot and Pete feels a laser blast catch the edge of his shoulder, burning through his jacket.

"Fuck," he yells, and then Pete thinks he's got to be more badly hurt than he thinks he is because he hears Patrick's voice, shouting for them to stop firing. But a moment later, the Dracs do stop and Ash takes two more of them down, and he tries to raise his own gun, through the sharp arch of the burn but it's knocked to the ground, and a second later Patrick's got his hands around Pete's forearms, and then an arm around his throat like he's going to take him down with some choreographed wrestling move. Pete suddenly realizes that he's being held hostage, and he worries that he didn't catch on immediately. He takes a deep breath, feels it echo in Patrick's chest behind him. Patrick smells like nothing.

"I said, go inside, and I'll let him go," Patrick says calmly. "After we've talked. I did call off the attack."

"I'll shoot you right now," Ashlee says. More Draculoids come out of the shadows, until there are four times as many of them.

"Do what he says," Pete says. "He won't hurt me." Pete tries to catch Ashlee's eye, to show her he's fine even with Patrick's arm pulling tight across his windpipe. Bebe's calculating their odds, and he can see the decision cross her face.

Ashlee chokes out a sob, and then Bebe murmurs something that Pete can't quite hear and grabs Ashlee's shoulder and they go slowly inside, and on some silent cue, the Draculoids retreat.

"Let me see your burn," Patrick says, letting Pete go the moment the door closes. Pete's sure Ash and Bebe are right behind the door, possibly getting the guys inside armed.

Pete twists out of his jacket as Patrick pulls at the collar, wincing, and rolls his shirt up past the burn.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Patrick says, tracing the edge of the burn on Pete's arm. Pete hisses even though it doesn't actually hurt where Patrick's touching him. But it feels like something, strong and intense, enough like pain that Pete's confused.

"I won't let Better Living Industries take over my life," Pete says, but it's like they're someone else's words and they're weaker coming out in Pete's voice.

"But you'd let me, wouldn't you?" Patrick whispers into his ear, fingers still so close to the burn that Pete's staying stock still, afraid that if he moves, Patrick's fingers will tear at the wound, make it worse, or slide somewhere else, up his arm, over his chest, somewhere he won't be able to control the noises he makes. "Take you over."

"'Trick..." Pete says. He blinks up at Patrick, who just stares back at him, his expression giving away nothing.

"You think I don't know you, Pete, but I do," Patrick murmurs, fingers tracing up over his bicep, down over his elbow, skirting the very edges of the burn. "Doesn't matter what uniform I'm wearing, I'm still the only one who can read your words for what they really are. I'm listening to every transmission you make. Every one, and I'm the only one who gets every word."

"They're not for you," Pete manages to say.

"Really," Patrick says. "So what you said tonight about the old lullaby of tires?"

"Fuck you," Pete says, feeling stung hearing those words that meant so much spoken back to him, words that were supposed to go out into the dark, to reach their destination, to never come back.

"Come with me this time, Pete," Patrick says, perfectly reasonable, and it sounds like the old him, and Pete wants to give in right at that moment, he wants to save Patrick, go with him and get him out and it's so strong he's fighting it physically, twisting under Patrick's hands.

Patrick just smiles, as if he can tell exactly what's happening. "You know how to reach me. Write me a love song, Pete, and I'll sing it for you." Patrick stands, and turns to walk off.

"We're moving where you can't find us," Pete bites out, pushing himself to his feet.

"I know," Patrick says, and then, "Why do you think they haven't shut you down yet? Because I'm the only one who can translate you."

"So you admit it. You're protecting us."

"No," Patrick says. "I'm biding time, till you give yourself up."

"Never," Pete says.

"You'll give yourself up to me. We both know it. Your principles won't hold up, or your team, or your friends. You'll join the mission for me. I'm just being patient. Get that burn taken care of," Patrick adds as an afterthought, and then he's walking away. Pete hears the echo of a car door, the motor rumbling to a start, and the car, taking off on its way to Battery City, the sound so vivid Pete can imagine himself in the front seat, arguing with Patrick about the radio and watching where he's going as he blasts down the road, spinning dirt stories high into the sky.

Ash and Bebe and several of the people who have gathered for the broadcast come out at the sound of the engine.

"You're a fucking idiot," Ash spits. He wishes he didn't know exactly what she means.

"He didn't do anything," Pete says, like the obviousness of him standing here fine, and Patrick and the Dracs leaving is proof enough. "I could barely have fired my gun, and I'm fine."

Ashlee scans the horizon for long moment, and Pete hears several of the others spreading out behind them, checking the area. "Did you ever think that it's the other way around?" Ashlee says. "That he's here because you're hurt?"

It's ridiculous, and Pete says, "How would he know? You think he's trying to see if I'm ok?"

"That's not how I mean it," Ashlee says, and she picks up Pete's gun on the ground, and then his coat, hands them to him and says, "Just fucking go inside." He does, and his fingers trace the edges of the burn where Patrick's fingers have been.

 

Pete thinks back over all the times they've run into Patrick that night when he can't fall asleep. They all get hurt enough out here that it's not like Pete's been keeping a catalog of his injuries, but he wishes he has been, because if what Ashlee says is right, maybe it means Patrick really is showing up when Pete gets hurt, and that gives him more hope than anything else.

By the time his burn is healed, Pete's rescued some paper and pens from a collapsed building, made a run into the gas station even though the Dracs are a car length away, and offered to run a message into Zone 8 right after they heard about the fires.

And it's not like he really means to pick a fight when they end up sharing a camp with some runners. He's just saying things he knows will get him punched in the face and in a matter of seconds it happens, thrown by some kid who Pete should actually be able to take down in a real fight if his heart were actually in it. The punch isn't really that hard, but Pete falls against the table and catches the corner of his eye, feels the sharp split of his skin, and he knows he's probably going to need stitches.

The fight's broken itself up by the time a peacemaker comes in to settle the crowd down.

"Stitch yourself up," Bebe says, when he comes to find her and Ashlee, and she stands and walks off and disappears into a back room.

Ashlee does stitch him up, but she does it silently, her mouth pursed.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Pete says.

"Sure," she says and Pete doesn't say anything else "Was it worth it?" she says as she tugs the last of the stitches neatly and snips the thread. "I mean, I don't see him here."

Pete's about to protest when her expression shuts him down. "Fine, Pete, whatever, I'm sure you're not going around throwing yourself into the arms of danger just so Patrick will show up."

"That's not - "

"I'm sorry I ever mentioned it," she says. "I forget sometimes how stupid he makes you."

"Ash -"

"Just - there are a couple of tents in the back," she says. "If you promise not to start another brawl."

"I was going to go stay in the storeroom," Pete says.

"Of course you were," Ash says. "Probably just as well, I'm not sure Bebe won't be the next one to punch you. Get some sleep, ok?"

Pete shrugs. There's no way he's sleeping tonight, not with the dull throb of the cut on his forehead, not with all his senses alert.

"I'm sorry," Pete says.

"I know," Ash says, and then, enough to herself that Pete pretends he doesn't hear, "It doesn't help."

 

Patrick's waiting in the corner of the storeroom. Pete hasn't exactly been secretive about this place, but he knows in his gut that even if he was better about covering his tracks, Patrick would still find him. It's not exactly reassuring, but he knows he doesn't feel as bad about it as he probably should. It makes him feel closer to Patrick, which he knows should mean closer to danger, but he still hangs on to the idea that the Patrick that can find him is his Patrick, the old Patrick, and something Better Living Industries can't touch.

He thinks about Ash telling him about the tents. He wonders if she felt something in the air, or if she just knew it was inevitable that Pete would push too far with this cat and mouse game, this Pete and Patrick game.

Patrick's just sitting there, on a wobbly old stool that probably used to have much longer legs, weight balanced on his heels. Pete takes a step back, but doesn't go all the way out the plastic sheet that's the closest thing this place has to a door. He wants to make some joke about Patrick breaking in, because the windows are wide open, don't even have glass panes anymore, and even if this place had a door, Patrick could have just scooted right across the window sill. His white trench coat is impeccably clean. Pete is covered in desert dust, he can feel it all over his skin, in his hair, under his nails. He has a quick, hot urge to wipe his hands all over Patrick's jacket, dirty him up.

"Hi Pete," Patrick says, rocking back on his heels, tilting the stool back. "You're two days late for a broadcast."

"Someone took down the best antenna in this zone," Pete says bitterly.

"Shame," Patrick says, like he wasn't the one who gave the order to blast it apart.

"Why are you here?" Pete asks. He's feeling ridiculous just standing there and so he takes off his jacket, pulls his goggles off and sets them down on the table, tugs at the scarf around his neck like it isn't unusual for Patrick just to show up, like he doesn't care that he's not alone. He thinks Patrick may see it as him letting his guard down, but his guard is never down, and if Patrick is this ruthless exterminator now, then he has to know that, too.

"Don't ask me stupid questions," Patrick says. "You know why I'm here."

"Why - " Pete says, but when he turns around from hanging his coat on the nail in the wall, Patrick has his legs spread wide on the stool and he's touching himself through his pants, cupping his cock with the palm of his hand, smoothing his fingers down and up and down again.

"Pete," Patrick breathes out, unbuttons his trench coat with his free hand and lets it fall open, swinging at his sides. Pete zeros in on the tie, pulled tight under Patrick's collar, knot high up on his throat.

"Don't," Pete says, his mouth dry. Patrick tips his head back just a little, because he knows Pete's looking, and the knot of the tie catches as his Adam's apple. Patrick swallows and then looks up at Pete.

"Don't what?" Patrick says. He runs his fingers over his cock and then slides his hand down his thigh, cocking his hips. Pete can see the line of his cock clearly, and he knows that is the point. He looks up, focuses on Patrick's face, tries not to notice the way Patrick's fingers are digging into the material of his pants, like it's costing him not to put his hand back on his cock.

"Don't do this. Don't bring us here."

"I didn't bring us here, Pete," Patrick says, drawing out both 'us' and 'here.' Then he digs his fingers under his tie, loosens the knot, stretches his neck as he tugs. He looks at Pete to make sure he's watching, then loosens the tie a little more, and pops the first two buttons of his shirt. "What's so bad about here, anyway?" Patrick says, and then slides his hand over his cock again, letting his eyes fall closed.

"This isn't -" Pete says, but he can't seem to find the right word. He struggles for a minute before he says, "This isn't us."

"But why not?" Patrick says. His breath hitches and Pete makes a sound he doesn't mean to make at all and Patrick beams at him.

"Just - stop," Pete says, because he can't talk about what they were - what they are - and not either rush for Patrick or rush out the door and let himself get swallowed by the desert at night, by anything out there that isn't this feeling, this desperate need to grab Patrick and hold him tight under his hands and tell him everything he’s lost since he lost Patrick.

"I don't want to stop," Patrick says, and he tugs at his tie just a little more, unbuttons a few more buttons until Pete can see the hollow of his throat, the slightest bit of hair at the top of his chest, and the bright white of an undershirt that Pete is sure would feel brand new under his fingers.

"You can't make me," Pete says, because Patrick's smiling at him, having caught him looking at his chest.

"I'm not making you do anything," Patrick says. "You're the one sitting there, watching me." Patrick unbuckles his belt, so slowly, and then unfastens his pants, and stops to run his hand over his cock, gasping softly at the contact.

"How can I look away?" Pete practically whispers.

"Exactly," Patrick says, and shrugs off his trench coat. It pools on the floor at his feet, kicking up dust, and Pete would say something about Patrick besmirching his image but Patrick's reaching a hand into his pants, wrapping it around his cock inside his boxers. Patrick groans, and Pete takes a few stumbling steps forward before getting control of himself.

Patrick strokes himself, wrist bent, arm stretching the front of his pants. He bites his lip, looks at Pete, lets his mouth fall open slightly. "Pete," Patrick breathes out, and Pete practically trips over his feet to rush forward, bend and kiss Patrick, who opens his mouth immediately, tilting his head back, letting Pete lick into his mouth. Patrick continues to stroke himself, Pete can feel the movement of Patrick's hand in his pants, bumping against Pete's thigh. Pete wants it so much, wants to feel everything, wants to shove his tongue down Patrick's throat, shove Patrick's hand away and replace his own around Patrick's cock, wants to make him scream Pete's name, wants to hold him on the edge forever, and it's so overwhelming, the whiplash of his desire, that Pete pushes at Patrick's shoulders, breaking the kiss, and stumbles back. Patrick teeters on the stool, but rights himself, and then stands and shoves down his pants, and then his boxers, and steps out of them. Pete's trying to look away but Patrick's toeing off his shoes, pulling off his socks, his cock bobbing between his legs. He plants his now bare feet, toes digging in for purchase, and waits to catch Pete's eye before licking his palm.

"Patrick," Pete says, hands in tight fists at his sides, and Patrick wraps his wet palm around his cock and moans loudly, eyes falling closed. Pete tongues his swollen lips, feels feverish, wants so much to get down on his knees, or push Patrick against the wall, or press him down on the mat that's nothing like a bed, but at least then, at least then Pete could thrust against Patrick, could rock their hips together, kiss him as deeply as he wanted.

"Look what you could have," Patrick murmurs, stroking so slowly. Pete thinks about what Patrick said about being patient. Pete's always been terrible at impulse control.

"You're not offering me anything," Pete says. He pushes up his sleeves, wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, realizes he's sweating. It's not even that hot in this zone, just dry, always so dry, but Patrick has to be radiating heat, even if his skin looks cool and pale, just the slightest pinkness on his cheeks. Even his cock, sliding in and out of his hands, looks cool, and Pete's mouth starts to fucking water.

"I already made you an offer," Patrick says, "This," he says and stutters over a breath, hand sliding faster for a few strokes, then deliberately slowing down. "This is just an incentive. Come over here and kiss me again, you asshole."

It sounds so much like a memory, of years and years and years ago, that Pete's striding forward at the command, doing exactly what Patrick's asking. He grabs Patrick's hair and tugs, his other hand on Patrick's tie, and he kisses him as roughly as he wants to, letting everything pour int it, everything he's been holding back, and a lot of it is anger, hot and bitter. Patrick moans into the kiss and fights back, struggling to battle Pete even in this. Pete wants to show Patrick that they don't have to be like this, they don't have to be on different sides, but then Patrick's grabbing Pete's hand and they struggle there, too. Pete refuses to let Patrick pull his hand to his cock, because he isn't, he just isn't going to, he can kiss him and that will have to be enough, but Patrick's grip is stronger and Pete fucking wants it anyway. Pete hisses as soon as his hand is around Patrick's cock, bites hard at Patrick's bottom lip, and doesn't let Patrick set the rhythm. No, if he's going to do this, it's going to be at his pace.

Patrick laughs as Pete asserts his rhythm, and Patrick arches into it, and Pete tries to kiss away his laughter, and then Patrick's hands grip tight on Pete's shoulders and he breaks the kiss to gasp, "You fucking love me like this, don't you, with your hand around my cock? Want to mark me up, I can feel it in your teeth."

Pete screams like he's in front of a microphone, guttural and out of control and pushes with all his might until he's slamming against Patrick, slamming him into the wall. Patrick shoves back at him, but Pete grabs Patrick's tie and drags Patrick forward and they crash into each other and then crash back against the wall. Pete grabs Patrick's head, hands tight in his hair, thumbs digging into his jaw, and just kisses him blindly, his knuckles scraping against the wall. Patrick tugs at Pete's shirt, shoves his hands up under it, scrapes his nails down Pete's back and up his chest, twists his nipples so hard that Pete shouts into the kiss, and just pants into Patrick's mouth as Patrick pinches hard, one, two, three times and then Pete's sinking his teeth into Patrick's shoulder, the part that's just visible from the way his shirt and tie have pulled to the side. Patrick slides his fingers almost soothingly across the back of Pete's head and Pete screams again, because he just can't contain it, the sound muffled and somehow more intense against Patrick's skin.

He licks the bite mark he's left on Patrick's shoulder and Patrick's hips jerk, and then Pete's hand is closing around Patrick's cock again, leaning his weight against Patrick's chest and just jerking him off with harsh, fast strokes.

"You gonna make me come?" Patrick murmurs, and Pete bites him again in answer, because he can't possibly speak the words, but of course, Patrick understands. With each stroke, each hard, too-rough pull, he's telling Patrick how sorry he is that he let him leave, how much he hates what's happened to him, how much he wishes he didn't still miss him, how much he wants to hate him and can't. Patrick can hear it all, understands everything Pete isn't saying because Patrick speaks all the languages of Pete, even the non-verbal ones. But this is a new language Pete's never heard from Patrick, sharp and hard to understand, so frustrating because it's almost familiar. "Make me come, Pete," Patrick says, and his voice hitches, twists up at the end. Even with Patrick so close, Patrick arching up under his hands, Patrick going up on his toes with each stroke of Pete's hand, Pete knows there's something missing, some part of Patrick he's chasing and chasing, licking his skin, squeezing his hand, thumbing over the head of Patrick's cock, looking, looking. "Fucking make me come, Pete, fuck," Patrick gasps, and Pete concentrates on context clues, and on his gut, on pure instinct, on having known Patrick for so long, that he has to know some part of him, the most important part, even when he's so different. "Ah," Patrick gasps out, and Pete hears so much in those sounds, "Pete, come on, Pete, Pete," like his name even means anything anymore, followed only by needy, harsh gasps and then Patrick's head snaps forward, his body bows and he arches and arches into Pete's hand and comes, shouting nothingness that Pete will never mistake for an apology, no matter how easy it would be to convince himself it's true.

Patrick almost trembles under Pete's hands before he shoves Pete away.Pete still has a handful of come and a fucking raging hard-on, and he grabs Patrick's tie with his messy hand and smirks and then Patrick shoves him again and again, until Pete falls on his ass and then Patrick's on him, tearing at his shirt, the fabric ripping at the seams as he yanks it over Pete's head, vicious, mouth red, pupils blown, half-dressed and completely gorgeous above Pete, like a desert haze daydream of paradise.

"Give in," Patrick says softly as he unfastens Pete's pants, shoves them down.

"'Trick," Pete breathes, tugging at the tie, sliding it off, over Patrick's head, and meaning to toss it to the side, but gripping it tight in his fingers. Patrick's eyes follow the movement of his hands and he smiles.

"You want me to suck you, Pete?" Patrick whispers, and Pete's hands tighten around the tie. "Say yes."

Pete nods, eyes closed, fingers tight in the silk. "Yes," he says.

"Then give in," Patrick says.

"I'm not surrendering to Scarecrow," Pete says.

Patrick laughs, and then licks up Pete's throat for so long he thinks he's not going to say anything else, but then he nips at the corner of Pete's mouth and says, "That's not who you'd be surrendering to."

Pete gasps and arches into Patrick's hands and then Patrick's biting Pete's nipples, so hard there's a flash of pain, and just when Pete's about to scream again, because it's too much, Patrick yanks the tie from Pete's hands.

"Raise your arms over your head," Patrick says, voice even.

Pete stares at him.

"Do it," Patrick says, and Pete knows there's a difference between doing this and giving in to Patrick's bargain, and it's a fine line, but he does it anyway, because he's that fucked up, he's that far gone. He raises his arms over his head, and he doesn't even smirk.

Patrick whispers, "Good boy," and then ties Pete's hands at the wrists, tight, too good of a knot for Patrick to be fooling, and Pete tries to move his wrists, but he knows they're tied well enough that all he'll be able to do is swing his arms down. As if Patrick anticipates Pete working through this, he says, "Keep your arms above your head." There's an 'or else' in there, but Pete doesn't need to ask or else what.

Patrick doesn't say anything as he pulls Pete's pants down around his ankles, doesn't bother taking them all the way off, just bites down hard on Pete's hip, licks at the tattoo. "Is that what you imagined?" Patrick whispers against Pete's stomach, "All those times you jerked off to my voice? Is this what you thought it would be like?"

"I never - " Pete gasps, but Patrick bites the inside of his thigh and Pete yelps.

"You always," Patrick counters, and then he yanks Pete's boxers down, ripping the elastic as he tugs it over Pete's thighs.

"Patrick, you don't have to - "

"What, Pete?" Patrick asks, and he's almost cooing. “What don't I have to do? I don't have to suck you off? I don't have to finger you until you beg to come? What don't I have to do, Pete, tell me."

"Don't have to go back," Pete says, and it's so much of a plea that he closes his eyes, tips his head to the side, cheek on the dirty floor.

"Come on the run with you? No, I don't think so," Patrick says. "Why would I do that when if I just wait long enough," he sucks on the spot just below Pete's navel and Pete arches up, legs tangled in his pants, shoulders aching from where his arms are above his head, "you'll come to me?” Patrick doesn't wait for an answer, just licks up the underside of Pete's cock, sucks on the head, and then pulls away, waiting for Pete to open his eyes. When he does, he can't help but whimper, because Patrick is looking at him with such fierce ownership that Pete's not sure he won't agree to anything Patrick asks him right at this moment.

"Patrick, please," Pete says, arching his back, arching his neck.

Patrick smiles, and it's not a kind smile at all. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, and Pete groans at the sight, and then Patrick is pressing at Pete's hole, fingers too dry with just spit and Patrick doesn't stop and Pete doesn't ask him to. When Patrick's knuckle-deep, Pete makes a sound so low and deep it surprises him and Patrick's fingers twitch and Pete bears down hard and then Patrick's so deep and it burns and sparks and Pete's moaning before Patrick even takes his cock into his mouth, screaming when Patrick starts to suck him deep, Patrick's nose pressed to the ink of Pete's tattoo.

He's not sure when he started to beg, and it takes him a moment to break through the fog of pleasure and aching pain, the sharp scrape of Patrick's teeth on his cock to hear what he's actually saying. "Tell me I'm yours," Pete's saying over and over. "Fucking tell me, 'Trick, tell me, tell me I'm yours, fuck, fuck," Pete says, and he's coming before he can even think about holding it off, tight around Patrick's fingers, shooting down his throat.

Patrick's laughing as he kisses Pete's stomach, and Pete lowers his arms and touches Patrick's hair, and it feels weird because his fingers are numb.

"Told you," Patrick says, and let's Pete touch his hair for just a few breaths more before he says, "That's enough," sharply, and sits up, dislodging Pete.

Pete's quiet as Patrick dresses, and Pete can see he's half-hard again. Pete whimpers and Patrick looks over, smiles, and once his shirt is all buttoned up, he unties the tie from Pete's hands and puts it around his neck, leaving Pete to dress himself.

"Patrick," Pete says, zipping up his pants, deciding not to bother with his shirt.

"Hush," Patrick says, and suddenly he's right in Pete's space, thumb tracing the circlet of thorns across his chest, mouth so close that Pete's not sure whether Patrick's going to kiss him again or bite him.

"I didn't mean - " Pete says.

"Of course not," Patrick says, and then he does kiss him.

"I'm not coming over to BLi," Pete says. "I'm not taking your offer."

"Oh, I know, Pete," Patrick says. "I know. I'll see you later," Patrick says and then walks out, like later is actually a real measure of time, like he saw Pete every day, like nothing at all had happened.

Pete rubs his aching wrists, and then traces the marks Patrick's left all over his stomach. He thinks of the mark of his own he left, the bruise blooming on Patrick's shoulder, and knows it’s wrong but still feels that matching wounds pull them closer then they've been in a long time.


End file.
